Майкл Корита - If She Wakes

“Have a seat.” He moved his laptop bag off the stool beside him. The laptop bag had not one but two tags identifying him as a Diamond Medallion member. Wouldn’t want your Sky Club status to slip under the radar.

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m fine,” Boone repeated, but already she knew this guy wasn’t going to give up so easily. One didn’t become a Diamond Medallion member without some dedication.

“Humor a fellow traveler,” he said and patted the leather-topped stool. “I’ve been drinking Budweiser, but I like your style — scotch it is. Have a seat, and put your money away. I’ll buy the drinks.”

Boone didn’t say anything. She breathed through her nose and waited for the bartender to break the fifty she’d put on the bar, and she thought of Iraq and the first fat man she’d killed. You weren’t supposed to admit such a thing, but she’d always taken a little extra pleasure in killing fat men.

“I hope this doesn’t seem too forward,” Diamond Medallion Man said, leaning toward her and deepening his voice, “but you are absolutely stunning.”

The bartender put her change down, and Boone picked up most of the bills, leaving a five behind, and turned to Diamond Medallion Man. He gave what was undoubtedly his winningest smile.

“I hope this doesn’t seem too forward,” Boone said, “but do you know the difference between Bud and Bud Light?”

His smile wavered. “What?”

She reached out, grasped the flesh under his chin, and pinched it hard between her thumb and index finger. “ That is the difference,” she said and released him as he went red-faced and wide-eyed. “You might consider switching it up.”

She picked up her scotch and walked away from the bar, chastising herself. The fat man and the bartender were both staring, and that meant at least two people would remember her now, the polar opposite of her goal today. She’d known better, of course, should’ve just shrugged the lech off, but her temper could get away from her when she was forced to be passive.

All she could do right now was sit and wait and hope that her man had taken a later flight.

She went to the monitors and studied the arrival times. Maybe it wasn’t trouble yet. Maybe he’d just gotten delayed or had overslept. There was not supposed to be any contact today, so even if he’d missed his flight, he wouldn’t have reached out. She had no choice but to wait. The next flight in from Portland was in three hours. Then there was a final flight at nine p.m. If he wasn’t on either one, it would be a very bad sign.

Of course, his last messages had been a bad sign. Cryptic and scared.

Am I being followed? If so, tell them to back off.

Nobody was following him. Nobody should have been, at least. That was by his own insistence too. He was out in the cold, unprotected, going through his last week of free movements as had long been agreed upon. He could not attract attention, and he thought that canceling an established speaking tour would launch a signal flare into the blackness.

Or what they hoped was blackness.

She wasn’t allowed to call him, wasn’t allowed to make contact. Just pick him up in Detroit and go from there. All week long, she’d waited as he went from stop to stop, and she’d wanted protection on him the whole time, but it had been refused. The last stop had seemed the safest, though. A small town in Maine, an hour of speaking at some overpriced liberal arts school for kids with Ivy League trust funds but SEC brains. Hardly hostile territory. One night in a hotel on campus, a drive to the Portland International Jetport that morning, then a flight bound for Los Angeles with a layover in Detroit, and in Detroit he would disappear.

But the magic trick wouldn’t work if he never stepped onstage. A man who never appeared couldn’t disappear.

Boone left the flight monitors and walked through the lounge, past the sitting area with the crackling electric fire and the dark paneled wood that strove for the feel of an elegant home library in a place where every minute you spent was one more than you wanted to spend, and on out to a row of chairs facing the glass walls that overlooked the concourse. She sat, crossed her legs, sipped her scotch, and stared at the crowds hurrying for the tram.

Two more flights. Two more chances.

If he didn’t walk off one of those planes, she’d have to call it in. If he didn’t walk off one of those planes, there were going to be big problems.

Come on, Doc, she thought. Don’t let me down now. Not so close to the finish line.

She withdrew her secure phone from her purse, pulled up his last message, and read it again, as if it might tell her something she’d missed before.

ASK THE GIRL.

What girl? Ask her what ?

Boone put the phone away, swirled her scotch, and silently begged the next flight from Portland to deliver her man.

On the day before negligent-vehicular-manslaughter charges were filed against him in Maine, Carlos Ramirez bought a plane ticket to Caracas under a name for which he had both a driver’s license and passport and waited for the kid to pick him up and take him to the airport.

The kid was late, and Carlos had a feeling that was intentional. The kid looked barely old enough to buy cigarettes, and he didn’t say much, but he always had this faint smile that suggested he was laughing at you, the kind of smile that made you want to check to see if your fly was unzipped or if there was food stuck in your teeth. That was annoying shit from anybody, but from a child, it was begging for an ass-beating.

Carlos didn’t think he was supposed to touch the kid, though. In fact, he had a feeling that would be a terrible mistake. He didn’t know why the kid was so protected, but it was clear that he was, and so Carlos dealt with that bullshit smile and the mocking eyes. He’d have to do it only once more. If the kid ever showed up in Venezuela, it would be a different story.

Twenty minutes after he was supposed to be picked up and just as he was beginning to worry that he’d miss his flight and everything would be fucked, Carlos stepped outside to have a cigarette and stare up the street, as if he could will the car into appearing.

The car was already at the curb.

He stared at it, shook his head, and muttered, “Can’t you come up and knock on the damned door,” under his breath.

The kid spoke from behind him.

“I was told to meet you on the porch.”

He was sitting in a plastic lawn chair with his back against the house, one foot hooked over his knee, looking for all the world like an old man relaxing and watching the neighborhood pass by.

“The hell are you doing?” Carlos snapped. “How long you been here?”

The kid took his cell phone out. Studied it. “Twenty-six minutes.”

“You fucking kidding me? You just sat there?”

“I was told to meet you on the porch,” he repeated, unbothered, and pocketed the phone. All of his movements were slow, but there was a quality to his slender muscles that promised he could move fast if he was so inclined. He had a couple inches on Carlos and a longer reach, but Carlos would have liked nothing more than to step inside that reach and lay some good shots on his body, let the little prick understand that respect was not unimportant in this business.

Just get to the airport. Stay cool long enough to get your cash and get on the plane.

The cash was at the airport, and the kid was the ride. These were the rules.

Carlos said, “Let’s get moving, you...” He stopped himself before saying little asshole. “Let’s go.”

“You?” The kid raised his eyebrows with patient curiosity, as if he weren’t offended, merely intrigued. “You... what?”